One More Miracle: Or Alternatively, Why I Can't Have Nice Things
by Mistress Of Fandom
Summary: Sherlock died, and John cried, but now that he's back, what will happen to the crime fighting duo? This is a series of one-shots dealing with my reaction to The Reichenbach Fall and how I picture the reunion. These were written well before season three was released. They were posted separately on my friend's account, but have been taken down and reposted here under one title.
1. Alone At The Edge

The man stands alone at the edge. There is only one thing left to do. To save John. His only friend.

He jumps.

John stands in the empty street, watching Sherlock fall. His black coat flutters behind him. He half expects the man to fly, but he doesn't. There's a sickening crash, and Sherlock's crumpled on the ground. His body is twisted. John stands, and stares.

_Pain, anger, agony._

Bystanders rush around the fallen detective. John runs to his friend, praying for a miracle. He's still alive. He has to be. _He's Sherlock bloody Holmes for God's sake!_ But he's not. There's blood everywhere. He's not breathing.

_"This is my note."_ He had said.

_"I invented Moriarty." _He said.

_"Goodbye, John." _He said.

There was pain in that voice. Defeat. But he believes in Sherlock Holmes. Moriarty was real. He feels it. And somehow, the consultant criminal had forced Sherlock to jump. John would find out how. John would chase Moriarty to the ends of the Earth, and screw the consequences! He better run. Anger overwhelms John.

_I will finish it, Holmes, _he thinks. _I'll break him down piece by piece. I'll do it for you. Goodbye, Sherlock._

He waits with his friend, but his mind is racing. He is Doctor John H. Watson, and if it takes the last breath in his body, he will destroy Jim Moriarty.


	2. Unintended Consequences

He had never thought it possible. Never contemplated what it would look like. Never wondered how it would make him feel. It had taken him completely by surprise, which was a hard thing to do. Yet here he stands, watching silently. The sight of it makes him want to run to the man. To John. John, who is standing over _his_ grave. The black headstone simply engraved, Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft had come to the funeral, and left as soon as possible. Lestrade was there. Molly too. Mrs. Hudson had stayed behind when it was over. But John was still here. His right hand resting on the headstone. His head bowed. Talking silently to his friend. Praying for… something. Sherlock tries to read his lips.

"One more miracle. Don't be dead."

And then it started. Slowly at first. Quietly. Just one tear, but Sherlock saw it. Like he saw everything.

He had thought it would be fun, to show up at his own funeral. To spy and see what everyone had thought of him. He had never been so wrong. And now poor John was sobbing. Over a man he barely knew. The wind swirls beneath Sherlock's tree.

"John. Please stop."

He calls silently, pleadingly. The doctor looks up, but there is no one there.

"I can't do this if you cry."

He mutters to himself. It was a sacrifice that had to be made, of course. And if John never trusted him again, at least he was safe. One day he could go back. But not now. John would have to go on.

An unfamiliar feeling stirs in the detective's heart. Pain. Loss. Sorrow. Regret. But it was a cold fact of life. He _had_ to realize this. John would suffer, and it would be his fault.

_Trust issues._

Sherlock laughs quietly. He feels sorry for the psychiatrist. But he would keep John safe. If only for his own benefit. He was, after all, a master of many talents. He could do it easily. He watches as John limps away. Limps.

_Oh God. _He thinks. _My fault. My fault. My fault._

He swears to himself he will make it up to John. To his doctor. To his companion. To his friend.

_Damn you Moriarty. Even in death, you hurt me._


	3. The Woman Wise

_The Woman Wise_

He watches her. She sits quietly, memory flashing across her features. He waits. And there it is. Her pulse quickens, and her pupils dilate. She is careful to hide any other reactions, though. The dominatrix shakes her head at him.

"How's the afterlife treating you, Mr. Holmes? Have you finally come for that dinner?"

He keeps his gaze steady. It had been too hard, to keep himself detached. To keep himself distant. Many times he found himself hand poised on the door knob, at 221 B. Most recently, when Sherlock observed John's girlfriend, Mary, storming out of the flat in fury, tears streaming down her cheeks.

In the end, he had turned his focus to hunting down Irene Adler. The Woman. The Dominatrix. The one who, _almost_, got away. He tries to tell himself it was because she could help him track down Moriarty's attack dog. But the voice in his head, the one that sounded suspiciously like John, had told him there was another reason. A more logical reason, as backwards as that might seem. Both of them were meant to be dead, and she, of all people, would understand.

"Ahhh," she smiles, "I see. You couldn't stay away, could you?"

She leans closer to him, her brown eyes sparkling. Her heavy vanilla perfume assaults his senses. She places her hand on his knee, a comforting gesture, he supposes, and looks him in the eyes. The glow in her own eyes speak volumes.

Go to him. Apologize.Explain._ Beg._

She leans back, and Sherlock shakes his head.

"I _can't_."

As relieving as it would be, he can't. Moriarty's "Sebby" was still out in the world. It wasn't safe to go back. Not yet. Then again, he muses, John wasn't one to live safely. He also wasn't one to trust easily. But above all odds, the doctor had trusted the detective. And Sherlock had bloody well burnt that bridge, hadn't he?

_Pretty bloody brilliantly, too._ He thinks to himself.

No, John would be beyond angry, and more than probably violent. He couldn't face that, not when he had so much left to do. But, he couldn't stand it anymore. He had to see his doctor.

He had to be forgiven.


	4. Unhappy Reunion

_Unhappy Reunion_

Anger. Relief. Joy. More anger. Rage. Adrenaline. More joy. Even more anger. The man stands in front of him. Same coat. Same scarf. Curly black hair. Shining blue eyes. A calculating gaze. Sharp angles. Tall. Proud. It's him. His friend. But it's not.

No friend, no friend would ever pull a stunt like that. Not even Sherlock Holmes would do that to him. It was too cruel. Yet here he stands, in the flesh. Smirking down at John Watson.

His limp is back. He has his cane in his hand. His computer is open to his blog. Nothing's been added since _that_ day. He's thin. He hasn't been eating. Bottles of medication for depression, are strewn amongst _his_ things. But here he is. Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes.

John hits him. Right in that god damned grin. It feels good. He hits him again. This time under his jaw. It'll sting in the morning.

_Damn him._

He just stands there, blinking at John, for all the world looking like a kicked puppy.

"I thought you'd be happier, John."

"Go to hell, Sherlock! I've lived in it for the past two years! So you can just _go to hell_!"

The detective looks at John, genuine sorrow outlining his features. A bruise is blooming across his cheek bones. John contemplates giving him another.

"I'm sorry."

John looks at him. Sherlock never apologizes. Ever. But it doesn't change anything. John straightens up, taking his cane in hand. He limps past the detective, towards the stairs.

"I will help you pay the rent, as I should, not solve crimes. Good day, Mr. Holmes."

He walks up the stairs, leaving a genuinely shocked detective behind him. It won't last long, he knows. But, maybe Sherlock would go through the same hell he did. God knows he deserves it.


End file.
